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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020186">Funky Ceili</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter'>ReaperWriter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>These Lines Across My Face [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Found Family, Gratuitous Boston, M/M, Team Bonding, Teen and Up for the Swears, getting your shit together</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:07:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,979</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwyn and the Team spend a few days in Boston before splitting up, Gwyn to go meet Booker and the Team to take a job. Gwyn reconnects with her platonic former husband and asks him for help on a mission of her own. And gets to surprise Nile with an unknown talent while the team is out to dinner at a pub.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>These Lines Across My Face [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852702</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Funky Ceili</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This one is mostly lighter than the last one. Consider it an angst breather.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Gwyn left Boston in 2007, she did it driving an old model Jeep Cherokee in good repair that she’d bought for cash a few weeks before and stored at a self-storage place on the outskirts of Salem. Under the seats, she’d hidden the physical things she couldn’t bear to consign to the estate of Gwynna Thomas. A small jade figurine. A polished bronze mirror in an ivory case so old it was turning brown at the edges. A diptych icon of the Holy Madonna and Jesus. All three kept safe in small, padded boxes for travel. And a pendant, kept carefully clean and restrung over the years on a thousand new leather thongs, slipped again around her neck. She hadn’t worn it to drown at sea this time.</p><p>She’d paid off her bill in cash and driven away under an alias, heart breaking at the now widowed husband she left behind. They’d speak soon. And, he assured her, at the pace of technology, they could be video chatting in a matter of a few years safely, their deep and abiding friendship intact. A platonic sort of soulmate she hadn’t expected when she offered to marry a near stranger to make sure he could stay in the country and be taken care of after finding him beaten in the street just after 9/11.</p><p>No, Gwyn had left Boston in a hurry and in nothing resembling luxury.</p><p>Arriving back on a private plane carrying the same four small treasures, three packed safely in a carry-on bag and one worn around her neck and tucked beneath a Dropkick Murphys t-shirt was a weird way to bookend almost thirteen years.</p><p>“You all right?” Nile asked, her voice soft from across the small aisle as the pilot flew on through the night. </p><p>Andromache...Andy had insisted on night flying, and Gwyn didn’t care enough to argue it with her. She was stretched out on the sofa like seating behind them, seat belt most definitely not fastened, and snoring softly. Back past her, Joe and Nicky were curled up together in a double seat like the one Nile had claimed. The modern names still stuttered in her mind, but she was getting there. She’d get there. She had time yet.</p><p>“Gwyn?” Nile prodded, her brow wrinkling in concern.</p><p>“I’ll be fine.” It was the truth, and Gwyn could leave it at that, but in the few days she’d known Nile, the woman burrowed deep in her heart, nestling in and filling a space Gwyn hadn’t known she had. She turned and smiled softly at her. “I was happy. In Boston. Leaving made me sad. It’s bittersweet to go back.”</p><p>“I can see that. I...I can’t imagine going to Chicago. Not while my mom and brother are still there.” Still alive, Nile meant, though it’s not what she said. </p><p>Gwyn’s heart broke for her loss. Manvir accepted her immortality so calmly. He never blamed her, or hated her. Never demanded she try to share it. Just thanked his God when Gwyn had gasped back to life on the floor of their kitchen after accidentally falling on her own damn knife.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Nile.”</p><p>“Me too.” The young woman reached up, her fingers playing with the small gold cross on the chain at her own throat. She glanced away from Gwyn for a long couple of minutes, long enough that Gwyn started to wonder if that was the end of the conversation. Then, softly, eyes still averted, Nile said, “Can I ask you stuff?”</p><p>Ah. Of course. “Anything, any time.” Nile looked back at her and Gwyn leaned across the aisle, resting her hand on the other woman’s arm. “I meant what I said in Seattle, Nile. You’ve given me the opportunity to return to this family. Anything I can do for you, it’s my privilege.”</p><p>Nile nodded, and then seemed to consider her words. Finally, she asked. “Do you really think...I mean, are you sure that you talk to…” She stopped, dropping her gaze.</p><p>“The Virgin and my Lord Christ?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Gwyn considered the question and her answer, remembering another conversation with another young and questioning immortal almost a millennium before. She glanced back down the aisle and a wistful smile crossed her face. “Nico... I mean, Nicky asked me something similar when he was still very new.”</p><p>“He did?”</p><p>“He found himself in doubt of his faith.” Gwyn reached up, pushing the newly dyed black hair back from her eyes on the one side of her face. “Andromache didn’t help matters.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Nile said on instinct, then stopped, looking embarrassed. “I mean…”</p><p>“Doubt is normal, Nile. Especially for us.”</p><p>“Even for you?”</p><p>Gwyn considered that. “Let me answer your first question first. I believe in my heart that when I dream, in my dreams I see and speak with Holy Mary, the Blessed Mother, and with her son, my Lord Jesus. That has been the one true thing I have known in almost fifteen hundred years now. I’ve dreamed of the Holy Mother since I was a young girl who lost my own. And I’ve dreamed my Lord since after I rose from the dead and took vows as a holy virgin to be his for the rest of my life, however long that was.”</p><p>“You lost your mother?” Nile asked, frowning. “How young?”</p><p>Gwyn considered. “I was maybe six or seven summers. She died and took my youngest sibling with her in childbirth. That night, when I cried myself to sleep, the Holy Mother came in my dreams and said my own mother was in Heaven, but that she loved me and that I had a great purpose in life. And I kept dreaming of her. Not every night, but often.”</p><p>Nile let go of her necklace and leaned over. “And you’re married to...you know?” She pointed up toward the roof of the plane.</p><p>Gwyn grinned. “Yeshua ben Yosef.”</p><p>Nile shuddered a little. “Nope. Too close to Yusuf, ergo Joe, ergo…”</p><p>“And Joe isn’t?” Gwyn asked, a giggle breaking loose. “It’s not like you think, Nile. I’m not having x-rated dreams about Christ like some weird fan fiction.”</p><p>Nile reared back. “YOU know what fan fiction is?!”</p><p>“Not all of us avoid technology. I was platonically married to a man who hacks computers for a living, after all.” Gwyn grinned. “But my point is, there is an ecstasy to my relationship with Christ, but it’s religious ecstasy. Not physical. I wouldn’t want any part of that.”</p><p>“Why not?” Nile asked.</p><p>Gwyn shrugged lightly. “I think the term the young people use today is asexual. I never desired that kind of relationship.”</p><p>Nile shook her head. “Sorry, I’m going to need a moment to handle someone as old as them,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of the back of the plane, “who is comfortable with technology and modern queer terminology.”</p><p>“You researched me, Nile. You know I did stuff with the campus LGBTQIA center at the college I attended.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I assumed it was as...I don’t know, a supporter of another marginalized community. I didn’t think…”</p><p>Gwyn nodded to her right hand, where Nile noticed a thin black band on the middle finger for the first time. </p><p>“Oh. Huh.”</p><p>“Do you want me to answer your second question now?”</p><p>“My second question?” Nile asked, clearly still befuddled.</p><p>“About doubts.”</p><p>“Oh. Yes, please.” Nile sat back, reaching into the bag on the seat next to her and pulling free a water bottle. She opened it and took a long drink. </p><p>“Like I said, everyone has doubts, Nile, even in their mortal lives. They may not speak on them, but at some point, they do.” Gwyn tucked one leg up under the other, sitting half cross legged. “Now throw something that isn’t supposed to exist into that mix. I had the good fortune of coming from a time and a faith where saints being raised from the dead was part of my canon. My doubts came later.”</p><p>“Later?”</p><p>“When the church became about exclusion over inclusion. About women being subservient. About greed and wealth. About destroying others instead of commonalities. I asked my Christ how this could be the faith he died to bring, and how if this was man straying from the path, why God didn’t step in to stop it.” Gwyn blew out a breath. “I learned to hate free will, some days.”</p><p>“Oh,” Nile murmured softly.</p><p>“And later, when we lost Quỳnh and I begged and begged for a miracle and couldn’t have one. Again in those days in the prison. I doubted. I ragged. I wanted to scream and throw things and demand they leave me forever.”</p><p>“But you didn’t,” Nile said.</p><p>“I didn’t. Because even with this long life of ours, I’m not divine. I don’t understand all the workings of the universe. If the answer was no, there had to be reasons.” Gwyn looked at Nile. “One day I’ll understand everything. That’s faith. Doubt doesn’t change that.”</p><p>“Andy said God doesn’t exist,” Nile said, carefully keeping her voice low.</p><p>“Any gods Andromache may have been raised with have disappeared from any memory that is not hers.” Gwyn glanced back to where the older woman slept. “She herself was worshiped like one, but felt like she failed her people. That must be a lonely, bitter place to be facing down the end of immortality. For her sake, I hope she is wrong on this, and is welcomed home when the time comes.”</p><p>Gwyn turned back to find Nile studying her. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”</p><p>“We can always pray for her,” Gwyn whispered, conspiratorially. “What she doesn't know won’t hurt her.”</p><p>Nile snorted. “She’d probably worry about catching on fire or being struck by lightning.”</p><p>“Perhaps. But I’ve prayed for her every day from the day I met her, and it hasn’t happened yet.” Gwyn’s smile slipped a little. “Just like I prayed for Quỳnh and then for her soul.”</p><p>Nile’s own smile disappeared. “Why her soul?”</p><p>Those confused words froze every fiber of Gwyn to the marrow. “She’s dead, surely. She’s not with you, so she must be dead.”</p><p>“No.” Nile stared at her. “She’s alive. I’ve dreamed of her. She’s still trapped.”</p><p>It’s another knife to the heart. She remembered Sebastien speaking of Quỳnh a little in the first few years she’d dreamed him, but not after. He’d been filled with sadness, but she’d seen his family and their ends. His deep melancholy made sense. And Nile. Nile’s dreams showed her Merrick and the team, the aftermath. Andy and her mortality. Nile folding into the team. If she’d dreamed of Quỳnh, Gwyn missed it.</p><p>She’d missed it.</p><p>Quỳnh was still alive. And Gwyn hadn’t tried anything in these last two brave new centuries to find her.</p><p>“They aren’t searching?”</p><p>“No? How would they?” Nile asked, and fuck, she was young. Had gone into the Marines, had spent her life at war. High school science in America didn’t cover oceanography and marine archaeology, remote operated submersibles, and sonar. All the technology Gwyn watched arrive centuries too late. And, it turned out, not too late at all.</p><p>She needed to talk to Manvir. She needed to start looking five years ago. Ten. </p><p>“Oh, fuck.” Gwyn muttered, dropping her face in her hands. “All this lost time. Fuck.”</p><p>“Gwyn?” Nile whispered.</p><p>Gwyn took a deep breath and did what she needed to do. She lied. “It’s okay, Nile. Don’t worry about it for now.”</p><p>***</p><p>The plane landed close to dawn eastern standard time at the small airport in Bedford, west of Cambridge and Gwyn’s safehouse there about thirty minutes when the traffic was good on Massachusetts Highway 2. She took the keys from the attendant for the larger SUV that the team’s Mr. Copley provided, waiting while everyone loaded luggage, and the others piled in, and then climbed into the driver’s seat.</p><p>Nicky, Joe, and Andromache curled back up into each other in the back bench seat. Nile took shotgun, watching her with anxious eyes. She’d agreed to keep Gwyn’s midair panic about Quỳnh quiet. For now. </p><p>Gwyn fired up the engine and pulled out of the airport. Her Bluetooth keyed to the burner phone sitting in the cup holder in front of her and tucked into her ear, she actuated it. “Call Manny.”</p><p>The phone rang once before a warm voice picked up in her ear. “You know it’s ridiculously early, don’t you?”</p><p>“Believe me, overnight flights are never my idea.” A warm flicker settled in her chest. “I need to take the others to the place in Cambridge, but then I can work around your schedule. Do you have time for me today?”</p><p>“I have nothing but time. I took the day.” Manvir laughed. “Bargitta’s away at a conference if you want to come to the apartment.”</p><p>“Sounds good.” Gwyn took a deep breath, letting it out. “I’ve missed you, Manny.”</p><p>“And I you. Come by around 10:30, and I’ll plan to make lunch.”</p><p>“See you then.” Gwyn ended the call, catching Nile watching her out of the corner of her eye. “What?”</p><p>“Can I go with you?”</p><p>“To Manvir’s?”</p><p>“You’re going to talk to him about the thing we discussed last night, aren’t you?”</p><p>Gwyn bit her lip. Perceptive woman, Nile Freeman. Good for the team. Bad for wanting to keep any secrets around them. “I am. Among other things.”</p><p>“You can say no. It’s just, if I can help in any way, I want to. For them. And you. And her.”</p><p>Gwyn glanced in the rear view, watching Nicky slump into Joe and Andy into Nicky. </p><p>“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be a tourist in Boston today? Knowing Nicky, he’s probably going to go on a tour of the greatest cannoli shops in Little Italy later.” Gwyn smiled reassuringly.</p><p>“I assume we aren’t leaving first thing tomorrow. Do they only sell cannoli one day a week?”</p><p>“Fair enough. You can come if you want. I’ll text Manvir we’ll be three for lunch. I hope you like Punjabi cuisine.”</p><p>Nile shrugged. “Probably.”</p><p>“Splendid.” Gwyn pressed her foot down a bit more firmly on the gas. “Here we go.”</p><p>In the twenty minutes, Gwyn got them to the Cambridge house. And didn’t recognize it.</p><p>“What the fuck?” she muttered as she pulled into the drive. The house had been red when she’d last seen it. A person might call the yard landscaped if they were being kind. The front steps used to contain all kinds of cracks.</p><p>The house whose drive she pulled into looked like a Zillow ad. The paint now glowed a bright robin’s egg blue, with charming white trim and cast iron window boxes overflowing with flowers. The old concrete steps were long gone and replaced with nicely done stone. Gwyn reached for her phone and texted Manvir. </p><p>:What the hell did you do to my house?:</p><p>:Renovated it and started listing it on AirBnB for you with a professional manager. Proceeds are making you a tidy package in an investment account.:</p><p>:Why?:</p><p>:I got bored.:</p><p>“Fuck sake,” she muttered, getting out and encouraging the others to do the same. </p><p>:I’m bringing a friend to lunch.:</p><p>:Delightful. Enjoy the house.:</p><p>Gwyn led the others inside, using the code Manvir had sent her on the digital lock. “I think this has three bedrooms. It used to at least.” </p><p>“The décor is very nice,” Nicky commented, looking around. “Very well put together.”</p><p>“Thanks. I had shit all to do with it.” Gwyn side eyed the Pottery Barn aesthetic and led the way upstairs. There, they found the master with a queen size, one room with a full sized bed, and a second with two twins. “Well, enough beds that no one needs the couch at least.”</p><p>“Joe, Nicky, take the Master,” Andy said, glancing at Gwyn and waiting for her nod. “Nile and I can take the room with the twins.”</p><p>“I don’t mind the twin if you need more space, Andy,” Gwyn offered. </p><p>“I’m mortal, not infirm. The twin is fine.”</p><p>“In that case, I won’t argue. I need to shower. I have a meeting with a friend at 10:30. Nile wants to tag along.” She glanced at Andy and the boys. “Do you three want to ride with us and be dropped off somewhere?”</p><p>“I’m going to video conference with Copley and see what possible jobs he’s aware of that might be coming up.” Andy shrugged her duffel off her shoulder onto the floor of the twin bedroom. “And then I may just go for a walk.”</p><p>“We can find our own way around,” Joe said. “We’ll get groceries to make dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. And then maybe during the day, you can show us around?”</p><p>“I’d like that.” She glanced at Nile. “Shower?”</p><p>“You first.”</p><p>The drive into Boston was quiet. Gwyn let Nile play DJ, but barely heard the music. She’d seen Manvir once in the thirteen years since she’d left Boston. They’d met up just before she’d started school at Evergreen at a conference hotel in Portland. There’d been lines around his sweet, kind eyes and grey leant a salt and pepper dignity to his beard. But his smile remained. They’d hugged, holding each other for what felt like hours.</p><p>Gwyn found a public garage a few blocks away, paying to park. Then she led Nell around to Boylston and into the lobby of a building she’d entered everyday for years. The doorman looked them over with an arched brow of disdain.</p><p>“May I help you?”</p><p>“Gwendolyn Morgan and Nell Foster to see Mr. Manvir Arjwal. He’s expecting us.”</p><p>“Hmm.” The man picked up the phone and pushed a few buttons. He kept his voice down, but the surprise on his face got a snort from Nile. He hung up. “Mr. Arjwal is expecting you. I’ll activate the elevator.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Gwyn said, her smile sweet as she walked past him and to the correct lift. When the doors slid shut behind them, they devolved into giggles. “Pretentious ass.”</p><p>“He's new since you lived here?” Nile asked.</p><p>“Oh, yeah. John, the doorman back then, was pushing sixty-five. He’s got to be long retired.”</p><p>“This doesn’t seem very low-key. Andy’d shit bricks.” </p><p>“Andy was never technically my general,” Gwyn replied, shrugging as the elevator came to a stop with a ding. “I take her advice when it’s good. But sometimes, you have to make your own call.”</p><p>The door slid open and Gwyn stepped out, trusting Nile to follow her. She walked, her steps slowing as she got closer to the end of the hallway and the door. Her home and not anymore. Manvir had remarried a few years after her supposed death, and who knew how things had changed. </p><p>Her finger shook as she pushed the bell.</p><p>It echoed behind the thick oak of the door and her breath caught in her throat. She listened for the rattle of wheels. Instead, steps echoed. Gwyn stepped back confused and double checked the door number.</p><p>Then it opened and Manvir stood there.</p><p>Manvir stood.</p><p>“Surprise,” he said, grinning at her like a cat with the cream.</p><p>“How?” she breathed, her hand reaching out for him. “When?”</p><p>He turned, showing off a small backpack she’d failed to notice and below it, an exosuit. “I’ve had it for a little over two years. It’s been liberating. But stop standing in the hall gawping like a fish. Come in. And you too, Miss Freeman.”</p><p>He stepped back, waving them inside. Gwyn looked around. Some things had changed. Warmer colored textiles and throw pillows had replaced her more earthy forest shades. The art had all been updated. New photos in frames covered the mantle and various other flat surfaces. Then one photo on the mantle caught her eye.</p><p>“Oh.” She walked across the room to it, dodging around an ottoman that hadn’t been there the last time she’d walked this floor. In pride of place next to the wedding photo of Manvir and his new wife, Bargitta, was an old snapshot taken with a disposable camera. Manvir lay in a hospital bed, his turban neat and beard trimmed, but still pained around the eyes. His smile, though, was genuine. And Gwynna Thomas, with her chin length curls held back by a cream lace headband and wearing a matching cream lace dress with her silver framed glasses, sat next to him on the edge of the bed, flowers in her hand and a Justice of the Peace on Manvir’s other side. “This is still up.”</p><p>“Bargitta insisted. She said you’d played a huge role in my life, and she wasn’t afraid to share my heart with you.”</p><p>Tears burned Gwyn’s eyes and she sniffled just a little.</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Arjwal,” Nile said somewhere behind her. “Please, call me Nile.”</p><p>“Manvir. Or Manny. Any friend of Gwyn’s.”</p><p>Gwyn scrubbed a hand over her eyes and then turned. “Can I...is hugging okay with your super suit?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>She crossed the floor quickly and latched onto him, holding on and inhaling the scent she hadn’t forgotten. In their years together, they’d shared many hugs. They’d snuggled up together to watch television whenever work allowed them the downtime. They’d traveled as much as they could. And sometimes in the night, when nightmares plagued one or the other of them, they’d held each other close like siblings. Manny still smelled the same after all these years.</p><p>“I have missed you, friend of my heart.”</p><p>“And I you.” She squeezed tightly, and then let go. “And now, I need to ask your help.”</p><p>They ended up in the room that had long since become Manvir’s study, in front of an array of computers and other tech. Manvir settled into a specially made chair that included a charging port for the exosuit. Gwyn and Nile ended up on the couch caddy corner to him.</p><p>“Do you remember me telling you the story of the friend I lost to the sea so many years ago?”</p><p>“The woman who came from what is now Vietnam?” he asked. “Persecuted and trapped in a metal box.”</p><p>“Yes,” Gwyn managed, before emotion welled in her throat like a stone and she stopped. </p><p>Nile caught her distress and stepped in. “Gwyn had assumed she died. But we have reason to believe she’s still down there. Still trapped.”</p><p>Manvir’s eyes widened. “How…?”</p><p>“The same way I can fall on a knife and come back,” Gwyn choked out. “That I can look this young almost two decades after we met. She’s been dying over and over all this time, and I have to do something, Manny. I have to try to save her.”</p><p>“Of course we do.”</p><p>Gwyn didn’t miss the we, and her heart soared. “You’ll help me?”</p><p>“There are very few things I wouldn’t do for you, my Gwynna.” He glanced at Nile and nodded. “Now, tell me everything.”</p><p>Over the next hour, she told him the story in detail she knew of Andromache and Quỳnh’s capture. Of the fate of the iron casket and what they’d learned from the sailors on that voyage and their descendants. Where they’d searched as best they could with the technology they’d had then.</p><p>“But with what we could use now, sonar and remote subs, and the like…”</p><p>“I’ll start making contacts, running searches to make sure nothing like it has been seen and written off and investigating what an actual expedition will cost.”</p><p>“Money isn’t an object, Manny,” Gwyn said. “I don’t care if I have to bankrupt every account I have.”</p><p>“It wouldn’t come to that.” He reached out, and took her hand, squeezing it. </p><p>“If you’ll excuse me,” Nile said. “I need to use the restroom.”</p><p>“Just down the hall on the right,” Gwyn and Manvir said at the same time, then laughed.</p><p>“Glad you didn’t remodel this place too much as well,” Gwyn said, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>Manny laughed. “Is the Cambridge house so bad?”</p><p>“A little sterile, but I’m not angry. It’s better than letting it sit empty for decades.”</p><p>He still held her hand. “I have something I’ve been meaning to give you. If you’ll let me.”</p><p>“Oh?” Gwyn looked up at him and his expression, gone terribly serious. “What is it?”</p><p>Pulling open a drawer, Manvir pulled out a small black velvet box. Releasing her hand, he opened it. “I want you to take this back.”</p><p>“Manny,” she said, staring at the ring inside. They’d found it in the first few months of their marriage, a silver replica of a medieval vow ring. Clasped hands for fidelity. He’d bought it, saying it reminded him of her holding his hand as they’d waited for the ambulance the day they’d met. “I don’t think you should be giving wedding rings to two wives at once.”</p><p>“I mean, strictly speaking, I am a bigamist since you aren’t dead.” When she didn’t laugh, he didn’t press the joke. “I’ve had something done to it. There’s a tiny nanotech GPS tracker embedded in it now.”</p><p>“You want to track me?” Gwyn asked, confused.</p><p>“Passively. I worry about the danger this new life will put you into. If you go off the grid suddenly and for too long,” he said. “If something happened like what happened to your friends in London, I want a way to find you and get you help.”</p><p>“Oh, Manny.” She looked at him, his eyes so serious and full of love for her. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t romantic love, the kind he now shared with Bargitta. He loved her, and she loved him. “Okay.”</p><p>“Thank you,” he pulled the ring out and slid it into its place on her left hand. “Besides, I suspect you have no plans to wed again soon.”</p><p>“Two husbands, one spiritual and one temporal, are enough for one lifetime no matter how long. You’re an impossible act to follow.”</p><p>“Good.” Manvir broke into a laugh, reaching forward to chase the lone tear that had slid down her cheek with his thumb. Disengaging his suit from the charger, he rose. “Now, let’s go finish making lunch. And after, I’ll give you all of your documents to be Gwendolyn Morgan for however long she lasts.”</p><p>***</p><p>Gwyn woke to the smell of frittatas in the morning, blinking in sunlight making its way through the thin curtains. They’d all sat up the night before eating Nicky’s cooking and then watching movies on the house’s Netflix account. According to her phone, it was just past 9:30 AM. The glint of silver caught her eye as she set it back down.</p><p>Gwyn picked up the ring, sliding it onto her left finger. She’d felt naked when she’d left it behind in Manvir’s care when she faked her death all those years ago. Having it back eased her soul. The metal warmed against her skin as she rolled out of bed and started to get dressed for the day in a look that she called timeless punk.</p><p>After breakfast, she drove the five of them into the city. None of them stood out particularly, other than being an odd group together. Gwyn in her black shit-kicker boots, ripped black jeans, Flogging Molly shirt, and black leather jacket with patches safety pinned to it. Nicky with his nondescript jeans and hoodie. Joe looked just fancy enough to be a model without being so memorable he’d stick in anyone’s mind. Andy walked around like a rogue athletic trainer. And Nile, in fitted jeans, a nice shirt, and an athletic jacket. </p><p>Luckily, Boston never lacked for tourists, and enough of them that they were able to wander in smaller groups near each other, mixing and splitting up throughout the day without much notice. Gwyn left the car parked in one of major hotel parking lots, and bought five day passes for the metro. From there, they grabbed the train to the start of the Freedom Trail. </p><p>Gwyn showed Nile Boston Common with it’s 54th Massachusetts Monument and Bunker Hill, the US Constitution and Faneuil Hall, Paul Revere’s home and the Old North Church. Nicky insisted on a detour through the Little Italy area for lunch, gelato, and cannoli. The four of them took Nile through the various burial grounds, pointing out patriots they’d known during the war and discussing who’d been a delight and who’d been an ass. </p><p>They made it back to the car at five. “What do you want to do for dinner, Gwyn?” Joe asked as they all piled in.</p><p>She considered. It had been so long, and between the change of appearance and the care she and Manvir had done back in the day to prepare this identity for her, it should be safe enough. “I have a place in mind. Back in Cambridge.”</p><p>Llewellyn's Public House was built in an old decommissioned church on the hinterlands of Cambridge. Unlike the classic Irish pubs of Boston proper, Llewellyn’s was owned by a Welshman, though he gave it a very more pan-Celt identity. Televisions showed rugby and UK football, and the house band was just as likely to play Irish or Scottish music as anything Welsh. But it celebrated a Mari Lwyd party as happily as Robert Burns Night and St. Paddy’s. </p><p>Gwyn and the others walked in to the sounds of guitars tuning at one end of the space past a sign that said ‘Seat Yourself’. She inhaled, closing her eyes and taking in the smell of beer, whiskey, lemon wood polish, and whatever was cooking in the kitchen. </p><p>Suddenly, a glass broke not far in front of her, and her eyes popped open to find Cedwyn Llewellyn, the publican, staring at her. “Sweet St. Daffyd!”</p><p>Gwyn forced her face into confusion. “I’m sorry, did we startle you?”</p><p>“Gwynnie?”</p><p>Gwyn blinked as innocently as she could. “Oh! You must have known my Auntie Gwynna! Hello, I’m Gwendolyn Morgan.”</p><p>The older man stepped carefully around the broken glass, coming closer to stare at her. “By the saints, child, you’re the spitting image. Well, I mean, our Gwynnie Bird didn’t go in for quite your fashion, but your face. You look just like her. Have you...Come with me!”</p><p>He took Gwyn’s arm, gently tugging her by the arm across the room closer to the band. “Here! Look, here.”</p><p>Gwyn stopped, conscious of the footsteps following them. On the wall was a framed photo of her sitting in with the house band years ago, her head tossed back in laughter. Her curls hung heavy with sweat. Her hand held a pint. </p><p>Underneath, a small plaque read, ‘In Memory of Gwynna “Gwynnie Bird” Thomas’, Always in our Hearts’.</p><p>“Oh,” Gwyn managed. “Oh, she’d have loved that. She always told my mum how much she loved this place.”</p><p>“And now her little Gwen is here,” Cedwyn said, wiping his eyes. “Are you in Boston to stay?” </p><p>“No,” she said. “Just a few days for work. But I had to see the famous Llewellyn’s.”</p><p>“You and your friends sit. I’ll have someone over to get you drinks.” He waved them toward a comfortable table in the middle of the old sanctuary. “First round’s on the house.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Gwyn called as he hurried off to sweep up the glass.</p><p>Once they settled at the table, Andy raised an eyebrow. “You don’t lay low well.”</p><p>“He bought it, didn’t he?” She shrugged. “A bunch of us from my office used to drink here. It lowered the chance of us running into any of our clients.”</p><p>“And the singing?”</p><p>“Cymru is a nation of bards, Andromache.” Gwyn replied, pausing as a server approached. She grinned brightly at the young woman. “I’d like whatever hard cider you have, please, and can we see food menus?”</p><p>“ID?” The girl asked.</p><p>“Sure,” Gwyn said, digging hers out and handing it over. Nile did the same. Nicky, Joe, and Andy all snorted a little when they were asked, but complied, handing over their own artfully forged documents and ordering drinks. </p><p>“So you spent your days defending criminals when you lived here?” Joe asked, curious. </p><p>“I spent my time defending people accused of crimes.” Gwyn settled in, picking up a coaster and fiddling with it. “Some of them did it. A lot of them didn’t. The system is fairly fucked up that way, especially for people who are the wrong color or speak the wrong language or are from the wrong neighborhoods. So I did the best I could to make sure justice was actually justice.”</p><p>“How did that work out for you?” Nile asked. Gwyn watched a memory play over her face and wondered about the neighborhood she’d grown up in back in Chicago.</p><p>“Won some, lost more, kept trying.” The server returned, dropping off their menus and drinks. Gwyn took a sip of cider, sighing in satisfaction as the sharp dryness burst over her tongue. “All we can do sometimes is keep putting one foot in front of the other and face the next fight.”</p><p>“Amen,” Nicky said, clinking his own drink to Gwyn’s.</p><p>Soon the five of them were sharing a companionable meal. Gwyn had a massive plate of Welsh Rarebit, each bite sinfully cheesy. Across from her, Nile watched in fascination as Andy had a small love affair with her shepherd’s pie. Joe and Nicky stole bites from each other's plates. </p><p>Cedwyn approached as Gwyn finished her second cider. “How is everything tonight?”</p><p>“Fantastic,” she answered. “It lives up to the stories Auntie told Mom and Mom shared with me.”</p><p>“So, I don’t suppose you sing like she did?”</p><p>God help her, it was tempting. She hadn’t sat in and sang anywhere like this in forever. The closest she’d come was a couple of karaoke nights in college for people’s birthdays. And that wasn’t the same as feeding off other musicians.</p><p>Gwyn glanced at Andy, sure of the older woman’s reaction. But Andy just shrugged. “Up to you, kid.”</p><p>Gwyn snorted at the ridiculous endearment as the second oldest person at the table. But if Andy wasn’t going to freak out. “As a matter of fact, I do. I don’t suppose the band is looking for someone to sit in for a song or two?”</p><p>“Really?” Cedwyn smiled like she’d granted his Christmas wish. “They’d love that. Jerry used to play when Gwynnie sat in. He’ll adore this.”</p><p>The pub had been slowly filling up. Gwyn nodded at her plate. “Let me finish this and get me another cider?”</p><p>“Sure! I can’t tell you how thrilled I am.” The old man wandered away.</p><p>Gwyn glanced at Andy. “Are you sure you don’t care?”</p><p>“We’re all gone in a day or two. If you’re sure it won’t be a problem, I trust your judgment.” Andy raised her glass, drinking water. She’d been spacing her drinks out in deference to her new mortality. “Besides, I seem to remember your voice doesn’t suck.”</p><p>“It’s a bit better than that,” Nicky offered.</p><p>“High praise,” Gwyn shot back, eating more of her dinner. Apparently she had a date with the stage.</p><p>Half an hour later, a fresh pint of cider in hand and a new introduction to her old friend Jerry, she’d confirmed a set list of two definite songs, with two more possible if the crowd liked what they were doing. Four seemed like a good limit to not test Andromache’s patience.</p><p>Now she stood back next to Jerry, like a ghost of herself, as Cedwyn stepped up to the mike and got the crowd’s attention.</p><p>“All right you Massholes,” he called out, and the room erupted into laughter. “We’ve got a special treat tonight. Some of you old bastards like me who used to come here back in the early 2000s might remember Gwynnie Thomas who used to sit in with the band sometimes until we lost her in an accident in 2007. Tonight, her little cousin Gwen is going to sing for us. So be nice to her, all right?”</p><p>From at least one table came loud cheers, and Nile’s voice yelling, “Get it, Gwyn!”</p><p>Gwyn stepped forward, taking the mike. “Thanks for that introduction. Hopefully I don’t fuck this up too bad, right?” she said. “Anyway, this was one of Auntie Gwyn’s favorites. Here’s Johnny Jump Up.”</p><p>The band launched in, the speed just right and she launched into a story of a young man who tries to get a drink and has his whole life go sideways when the alcohol goes sideways with him. The music flowed out of her like prayer, pouring forth like a secular hymn as the crowd picked up the chorus.</p><p>
  <em> “Well I’ll never, no, never, no, never again, if I live to be a hundred or a hundred and ten/  </em>
</p><p><em>I fell to the ground and I could not get up, after drinking a pint of Old Johnny Jump Up.</em>”</p><p>The song ended in raucous applause. Jerry slapped her on the back. “Your aunt’s ghost, I swear.”</p><p>Gwyn took a swallow of cider, glancing at the table to find Nile wide eyed and Andy, Joe, and Nicky laughing. </p><p>“Right,” she said, “how about another?”</p><p>The room exploded in cheers.</p><p>“This one’s called The Night That Paddy Murphy Died. Sing along if you know it.”</p><p>She counted in the band and they were off again, the sound echoing through the old church rafters and Gwyn connecting to the audience, the band, and across the room, her little family cheering her on. Fire and joy burned in her chest. Joy. Happiness. Righteousness. This was right and true. She’d found her path back.</p><p>The song ended. She panted for breath for a moment. “Now, I’m only supposed to do these two…”</p><p>Boos filled the room, and Gwyn cackled. </p><p>“But while a lady is supposed to leave them wanting more, I think you can tell by looking I’m not much of a lady.” The boos rolled like thunder into laughter. “This next one is an old protest and it’s a little angry. It’s alright to be angry sometimes. May it remind you to always look at who those in power are treading underfoot, and fight for them.”</p><p>This time, instead of counting in, she stomped it, her boot rattling the rhythm on the stage in time with the bodhrans. </p><p>
  <em> “I was born on a Dublin street where the Royal drums do beat, and the lovely English feet walk all over us/ And every single night when me da would come home tight, we’d invite the neighbors outside with this chorus.” </em>
</p><p>This was a song of the anger in her heart, the rage she’d learned to live with. Learned to find fuel from instead of succumbing to. Gwyn used it now, biting into the lyrics and infusing it with all the pain of the recent protests. Of every fight she’d been fighting for the last few hundred years. A valve and a release for it. And the crowd fed it back to her, hearing and responding.</p><p>When she finished, sweat drenched her brow and she drained the rest of her cider as the room continued clapping and cheering. She glanced at the band. They had their own set to play, but Jerry nodded at her. One last song. One last high to go out on.</p><p>Gwyn promised herself though that whenever she could, she’d find a way to do something like this. Music was a birthright of her people. Songs were in their blood. She’d lost that along the way and finding it again in this out of the way suburban pub meant the world.</p><p>“All right, this is my last one. I’m here with friends and this wasn’t how they planned to spend their night.” She glanced at them, giving them her best smile and warmed by the fondness and love in their faces in return. “So let’s go out on something insane, yeah? This is Rattling Bog. Let’s fucking do it.”</p><p>Gwyn began clapping and the room erupted and they were off into what was possibly the greatest tongue twister of an Irish folk song of all time. The band clapped and sang along, half the audience on their feet stomping their feet, and at least one of the waitresses had stopped what she was doing and was dancing Irish step dance to the side of the band stage.</p><p>When the song roared to its conclusion, Gwyn almost passed out from lack of oxygen, collapsing into Jerry laughing so hard tears slid down her face. He squeezed her tight, shaking her just the way he used to when she’d been Gwynnie. She kissed his cheek and shook hands with the rest of the band, then turned and took a bow before hoping down and making her way back to the table.</p><p>When she got there and collapsed into her seat, Joe handed her a glass of water, chuckling as she chugged it. “Thirsty work. Better be careful or someone will try to get you a recording contract.”</p><p>“Never happened back in the day, and I’ll have Manvir scrub anything that ends up on YouTube when we get back to the house.” She grabbed a napkin and wiped the sweat off her face.</p><p>“Were you going to say you could sing?” Nile asked.</p><p>“If it came up,” Gwyn said. “Not usually a useful skill in the work Andy needed me for.”</p><p>“Though nice when we used to travel in a world with fewer entertainments,” Nicky offered.</p><p>Cedwyn came by, setting a glass of whiskey in front of her. “Your aunt’s tradition.”</p><p>“Diolch,” Gwen offered, and his eyes lit up.</p><p>“Come back any time, and I’ll put you on stage again,” he said. “Pity more Welsh songs don’t draw the crowds.”</p><p>“Isn’t it? Though the Irish do write a good tune.” She pulled out a credit card and handed it to him. “We’d best tab out for the night.”</p><p>“I’ll have it back in a minute.”</p><p>“Do you sing in other languages?” Nile asked when he moved out of earshot.</p><p>“Many. Cymru, and some songs few recall anymore. Things in some of the First Nations languages I learned. Arabic and Italian, French. Latin.” She closed her eyes, thinking. “Some Tagalog. Spanish. Russian. My Greek is rusty.”</p><p>“Huh. We should talk music.”</p><p>“We can definitely do that. Maybe when I get back from Paris.”</p><p>Nile smiled. “I’d like that.”</p><p>“When do you plan to leave?” Andy asked. </p><p>“Probably in a few days. I need to do a little more business here, make some arrangements with Manvir,” Gwyn said. “I’m aiming for Wednesday. Why?”</p><p>“Copley has a lead on a job for us. He wants the four of us in Belarus by Tuesday.”</p><p>“You don’t have to wait for me. If you need to go, go ahead. I’ll get Mr. Copley’s contact information, reach out to him, and then we can touch base when the job is done.” Gwyn smiled at Andy. “I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay.”</p><p>“It’s not you I’m necessarily worried about,” Andy muttered, but nodded.</p><p>The check came back, and Gwyn signed for it, leaving a generous tip. The five of them gathered up their stuff and slipped out into the night as the band played on.</p><p>***</p><p>The others flew out on Monday morning bright and early. Gwyn dropped them at the airport, then drove back to the apartment on Boylston.</p><p>“You look troubled,” Manvir said when he let her in. “Is everything well?”</p><p>“I didn’t say anything to anyone but Nile,” Gwyn replied, following him back to his office. “I didn’t want to get their hopes up, in case we can’t find her.”</p><p>“I’ve had a search running since we last spoke, but nothing has turned up.” He gestured to her to sit on the couch as he settled . “I do have some leads on teams who can do the search work. Salvage, so they value discretion. If you can work on looking at oceanic charts and marking where you believe it best to start looking, we can start putting wheels in motion, have an expedition ready to go in a matter of weeks.”</p><p>“Weeks.” The stone that settled into the pit of her stomach made her want to vomit. “We could have been looking for her all this time if I had only made contact sooner. Maybe none of the awfulness with Merrick would have happened to any of them.”</p><p>“Gwynna, you can either dwell in the past or move forward.” Manvir reached out and grabbed her hand. “You taught me that, after I lost the use of my legs. We will do whatever it takes to find her now. You will look at the charts, and then you will go the Paris and see the other man, the sad one.”</p><p>“Sebastien.”</p><p>“Yes, who is also not your fault. Do the most good you can and keep moving forward.”</p><p>Gwyn huffed out a laugh. “I hate when you quote back my own good advice to me.”</p><p>“You love it.” Manvir smiled at her for a long moment before his face slid into seriousness again. “Will I see you again?”</p><p>Gwyn straightened up. “Of course. I don’t plan to ruin this identity too quickly. I figure I can use it for a decade or so in Boston if I keep the visits infrequent.”</p><p>“Good. I’m not ready to say a true goodbye to you yet.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers for a long moment. “When do you leave?”</p><p>“Tomorrow. When we finish today, I’ll have wrapped up everything here.”</p><p>“Stay for dinner tonight. With me and Bargitta. I want her to know who you are.”</p><p>“As Gwendolyn.”</p><p>“As Gwynna.”</p><p>Gwyn sucked in a hard breath. “Manny.”</p><p>“She is the other half of my heart from you,” he said. “And she would never do a thing to harm you, because it would harm me.”</p><p>“I want to believe that,” Gwyn said. “I do. But now that the others are back in my life, it's not just me I’m trusting her with.”</p><p>“Trusting who with?” a voice asked from the door.</p><p>They turned and there stood a beautiful woman in flowing yellow trousers and a red and orange patterned tunic blouse that highlighted the beautifully wrapped orange turban on her head with a jeweled brooch in the center.</p><p>“Bargitta! You’re home early.” Manvir rose and walked forward, drawing the woman into his arms and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I wasn’t expecting you until three or four.”</p><p>“I caught an earlier flight. Who is this, Manvir?”</p><p>Gwyn took a deep breath. This woman had never disrespected her place in Manvir’s past. And she smiled at her now, a warm if questioning look on her face. </p><p>Andy would kill her if she ever found out. “I’m an old friend. Would you join us? It requires some explanation.”</p><p>Bargitta cocked her head for a moment but allowed Manvir to lead her into the study and seat her in the arm chair that faced both his seat and the couch.</p><p>Gwyn took a deep breath and reached into her pocket, pulling out the small switchblade knife she’d been carrying since she’d changed into this persona. “I’m currently known as Gwendolyn Morgan, but when he met me I was Gwynna Thomas. We used to be married.”</p><p>Bargitta laughed, looking between them for a minute and waiting for the joke.</p><p>When Manvir didn’t join her, she stopped, abruptly. “But that’s impossible. My husband’s first wife died in 2007 when she was thirty-five. You can’t be a day over twenty-one or twenty-two.”</p><p>“I did die on paper.” Flicking open the knife, she shoved up the sleeve of her jacket. “As for dying biologically, that’s trickier. And a longer story.”</p><p>Then Gwyn drove the knife into her arm and did her best not to bleed on the carpet.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Diolch= Thanks (Welsh/Cymru)</p><p>Gwyn's story will pick up in the next installment when she has the most ill timed meeting with Booker ever. Buckle up, friends. This was the angst break.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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